I lived in a home for wayward boys for a period in my adolescence. The ramshackle manse stood solitary in a remote field of rubble and weeds. No pedestrians came to that corner of Toronto, and if some lost driver were ever to find themselves in the vicinity, they would immediately roll up their window and turn away. The land upon which that structure once was left to fall into ruin now emits a permanent stink.
She looks away from me now. I remember her name: E.Z. I look bad: I’m dressed in tattered clothing. But I could be dressed in the flowing silk of vintage Armani, and she would still prefer to discretely pass me by. To this day, all of us poor boys who played with the stones in that rank field carry our own foul aura.